


sunlit lovers

by forestfroggie



Category: Bleach
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Lazy Mornings, Love, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Morning Kisses, No Angst, Not Beta Read, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25045918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestfroggie/pseuds/forestfroggie
Summary: Yamada Hanatarō spends a lazy morning with his lover, a tiny hamster in the face of a slumbering grizzly.
Relationships: Yamada Hanatarou/Zaraki Kenpachi
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43





	sunlit lovers

**Author's Note:**

> so like... i am taking this time in corntine to rewatch bleach & relive my childhood and i would give up my life for yamada hanatarou, like deadass lol!!!!! he rarely comes on screen i feel so that's probably why my pathetic ass latched onto any interactions he had with other characters... he deserves a loving relationship so i have come forth to play house using him and kenpachi bc i happen to also really like him LOLOL! i go absolutely weak at the knees for Mornings With Significant Other Scenes so i figured it was a good idea to use for a first fic. please enjoy. :-D

Morning sunlight filters through the shōji, bathing the room and its two slumbering inhabitants in a warm glow. 

The illuminated interior reveals a simple layout, although the size of it indicates that it is a captain’s living quarters. Random knickknacks, a few disorderly stacks of books, and the odd article of clothing decorate the space, leaving no trace that it had once been barren and unwelcoming.  Even without the homely additions bringing vibrant life to the walls, however, it wouldn’t be too far of a reach to say that the very essence of the room had already fundamentally changed from a previously harsh air into something akin to  _ love _ the moment Yamada Hanatarō had tentatively first stepped inside. 

Unlike the bright and lively outdoors, already filled with the chatter and cheer of birds and the like, the inside of the room is still in the throes of quiet and undisturbed sleep, the sound of shifting blankets and a quiet snuffle the only indication that someone has begun to awaken. 

Under the large, rumpled mess of a quilt, a head pokes out, tousled hair sticking in every imaginable direction and mouth opening wide into a sleepy yawn. Rubbing bleary eyes, the smaller of the two currently occupying the futon moves to get up when he is abruptly pulled back under the thick covers into a battle-hardened torso with a thump and a startled squeak. 

“Ken-san…?” Hanatarō calls out questioningly before reaching down to pull at an arm thickly corded with muscle that had looped itself around his midriff, pouting when there is no give whatsoever. He receives a low grumble in reply, suggesting that his bed partner had yet to properly wake. 

Hanatarō turns his body so that he is properly splayed across the captain of the 11th Division and rests his chin on his hands as he shyly watches his captain sleep, taking in the way the sunbeams dance across his visage and eyes drinking in the harsh ridges and angular planes of a face belonging to someone who has become so very precious to him. Hanatarō slides his eyes shut and leans forward to affectionately rub their noses together, a habit from the earlier stages of their relationship that had never really gone away. 

When he opens his eyes again, he is greeted by the gaze of a singular eye and a lascivious grin, and promptly flushes a bright red when he realizes that he has been caught. Kenpachi leaves him no room to scramble away, however, as he pulls Hanatarō into a languid kiss. 

The pair idly take their time entwined together in the space that has become their own miniature universe, hidden away from the outside world and swaddled in their boundless love for the other, until Hanatarō pulls away with a  _ pwah!, _ a mischievous tilt to his lips.

“Uegh, Ken-san, your morning breath—”

“C’mere, you,” Kenpachi grunts as Hanatarō sits up, placing his hands on Kenpachi’s chest. “I’m not done with you jus’ yet.” 

“That tickles!” Hanatarō falls into a fit of breathless giggles, laughter tinkling in the air, as Kenpachi’s fingers skitter along his sides and make their way down to rest on his hips. 

As their amusement quiets down, the two are left contentedly gazing at each other.

“Mornin’.”

“Good morning to you too, Ken-san. Did you sleep alright?” 

“Mm.” Kenpachi watches as Hanatarō breaks out into a lovely smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. Gods, there is truly nothing Kenpachi treasures more than that of his Hana’s happiness, no sight more enchanting or prized than his smile. 

Jeez, he thinks as he returns Hanatarō’s affection, cracking a smile of his own, when had he become such a disgusting sap?

Hanatarō shifts to comfortably lay his cheek against a broad pec, the muscles underneath roiling as he traces little figures into the skin with his index finger. He hears the slow but steady  _ ba-thump, bathump  _ of Kenpachi’s heart like lapping waves and lets his eyes slip shut, coddled in strong arms, Kenpachi a once tumultuous ocean and Hanatarō the small sailboat that has tamed the unconquerable sea.

Neither party moves, the peaceful atmosphere of the sunny morning time infectious and all too easy to be lulled into. 

The calm does not last, as Hanatarō is struck with the sudden realization that he is, more or less, straddling the captain in a fashion that would most definitely veer off in a different direction, and already has, if Kenpachi’s growing leer is anything to go by. 

“Heh, looks like someone’s eager,” Kenpachi drawls. He chooses this exact moment to punctuate his words with a lazy thrust of his hips, prompting another fierce blush from Hanatarō who begins to flail and stammer out a torrent of words. 

“U-um, Ken-san, as much as I’d love to stay in bed with you, you know both of us d-don’t have the day off, right? You still have to complete your daily duties as c-captain, and I still have to go to the 4th Division later to drop off medical supplies and assist with the Relief Station, not to mention check on the greenhouses—h-hey—stop that—” Hanatarō greets the wayward fingers sliding up the hem of his yukata and kneading the soft skin of his thighs with a reprimanding  _ smack!  _ and an indignant huff. 

“Ken-san! You  _ know _ it’s not that I don’t want to s-sleep with you, but that we both have things to do for the day, and you  _ also _ know that the Captain-Commander’s going to be very angry if you continue shirking your responsibilities like this!” 

At this point, Hanatarō’s face is redder than Rangiku’s lipstick on the Shinigami Women’s Association’s monthly girls’ night out, his complexion tinting further at his own brazen exclamation of his want.

“Tch,” Kenpachi clicks his tongue in irritation at Hanatarō’s mention of work when he could think of better things to do, like a good fight, or…  _ or Hanatarō. _ No, it wouldn’t do to dwell on such thoughts, especially when the subject of said thought is currently perched on top of him and looking increasingly displeased, cheeks puffed out and eyebrows scrunched together. Just like a disgruntled hamster, he mused. (Hanatarō can protest all he wants, but Kenpachi holds steadfast the idea that the smaller Shinigami resembles the furry rodent.)

With a drawn-out groan, Kenpachi sits up, cradling Hanatarō in his lap. Well, what his Hana wants, he gets. 

“Alright, alright. I’m up.” He runs his hand through the bird’s nest sitting atop his head, sighing, mood already worsening at the thought of having to fill out  _ paperwork _ . Disgusting. He’d rather brawl with Kuchiki or Ichigo, although the latter has already gone back home, so that was probably out of the question.

Hanatarō’s eyes soften, previous irritation already fading as he scolded, “I know you don’t like it, but it’s something that you have to do.” 

He pauses, deep in thought. 

“I can bring you a bento later and we can have lunch together, if that makes things any easier?” Hanatarō timidly glances up at him with pretty eyes, delicate hands grasping Kenpachi’s shoulders. 

A bento made by  _ Hanatarō _ ? Kenpachi is already salivating. Once—this was way back during his courtship of the aforementioned Shinigami—Kenpachi had attempted to make his own chocolate to proffer up to him, as proof of his capability to care for another other than himself and also as a romantic gesture, since it had, coincidentally  _ and _ conveniently, been Valentine’s Day. Needless to say, it was nothing short of a Great Calamity. Somehow, he not only burned the chocolate itself to a mere  _ crisp _ , but he’d also managed to destroy the gas lines that ran through Seireitei, racking up an impressive amount of apology paperwork. 

News of the incident reached Hanatarō’s ears and the absolute angel, like the saint he was, tracked down the embarrassed captain and, side-by-side, helped him clumsily prepare his first confection. (Kenpachi had later been treated with muffled words of praise as Hanatarō took his first bite of the chocolate strawberries, and whoever says that he, eleventh captain of the fearsome 11th Division, had blushed something fierce at the encouraging compliments is in fact a lying bastard.) It was through this that Kenpachi became privy to the knowledge that Hanatarō was, in fact, a phenomenal chef. 

With time and Hanatarō’s infinite patience, Kenpachi is proud to say that he could now safely dish up a katsudon without any major casualties.

“.....-san. Ken-san?” 

Kenpachi snaps out of his thoughts at the sound of Hanatarō’s voice, and looks down at his lover, who cocks his head and concernedly peers up at him.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, just thinkin’ about the past,” Kenpachi says as he leans his head down and begins to pepper kisses down Hanatarō’s throat, “And how sexy it is when ya order me around.”

Hanatarō reddens yet again and gives a little _ eep _ at that, his eyes growing comically large at the bold admission, and elects to ignore the suggestive reply. He instead sputters out a repeat of his earlier question on whether or not Ken-san wanted a bento, and if he would be so kind as to join Hanatarō for lunch.

“I’d love that,” Kenpachi hums, his head resting on the juncture between Hanatarō’s neck and shoulder. 

“We should start getting ready now, Ken-san, if we want to be on time.” Hanatarō inches out of Kenpachi’s hold, standing up and moving to the closet to pick out his hakama and kosode. 

Kenpachi watches as Hanatarō unties his yukata and lets it fall to the floor to be picked up later when he puts the futon away. He roves a hungry gaze across Hanatarō’s naked body, eyes following the soft lines of his slender back and lingering on the curve of his pale ass. 

Absolutely gorgeous. Stunning. A divine gift from the gods. Delicious, too, if Kenpachi had to lay all his cards on the table.

Hell, Kenpachi could write countless poems waxing lyrical about each and every aspect of his Hana, his literary incompetency be damned. (Somewhere in Seireitei, Captain Kyōraku Shunsui suddenly shivers, fight-or-flight instinct triggered at the thought of being forced to listen to a poem written by an illiterate beast like Kenpachi.) 

His eye candy is taken away a moment too soon as Hanatarō finishes tugging his Shihakushō into place, tucking in the fabric at his waist. Hanatarō turns around to meet a lewd simper, and rolls his eyes, exasperated yet fond, as he approaches the owner of such an expression with a handful of bells in his left hand. 

“Come, Ken-san. Let me help you with your hair.” 

Hanatarō picks out a single, dainty bell and with gentle but sure fingers, fastens it to the end of a lock of hair. The entire procedure now second nature to his deceptively dexterous hands, he repeats the action with another bell and another lock of hair as he hums a faint tune.

The whole process is tedious, and in the past, too prideful and thinking it strange to ask another to help with his hair, Kenpachi had taken several taxing hours every morning to complete this part of his routine. 

However, once Hanatarō had settled comfortably into his life, Kenpachi had found himself allowing the Shinigami to help in the intimate ritual, the first of many submissions that followed as he learned what it meant to love another, what it meant when you saw that certain someone and felt sunlight pouring into your soul, filling you up with all the goodness that existed in the vast, vast world and leaving you gratifyingly content and  _ knowing _ .

While Hanatarō busies himself with the final bell, Kenpachi leans over to grab his captain’s haori, ragged edges reminding him of the blood shed to obtain such an overcoat, blood he has spilled since he was but a mere child. 

After all, killing the previous captain of the 11th Division in front of two hundred members was no small feat. 

How ironic it is that a man such as  _ he _ now has a  _ lover _ , a medic no less, who has given him his first taste of what it means to be  _ cherished _ , safely blanketed by the unconscious knowledge that the love he receives is an unconditional one, a gift with no ulterior motive, an offering that expects nothing in return. A  _ lover _ who has given him the chance to grow beyond himself, has held his rough-hewn hands and helped him experience what life had to offer besides fighting and bleeding wounds, and selflessly handed Kenpachi his whole heart.

Hanatarō releases his hair and steps back to admire his handiwork as Kenpachi finishes getting dressed and stands up, towering over his lover and unable to resist pressing a chaste kiss to the top of his head as he helps fold the futon and restore some order to his—no,  _ their  _ room. 

Ready to be on their way, Hanatarō slings his medical kit over his shoulder and clambers onto Kenpachi’s back as the large man steps out the doors and into the welcoming sunshine and makes his way along the streets of the 11th Division barracks. Accelerating his speed, Kenpachi arrives at the 4th Division doors in record time with Hanatarō guiding the way, leaving no room for his own terrifyingly horrid sense of direction to lead him astray. He wears a toothy grin as Hanatarō hops down and turns to him, beaming, bashful smile blossoming like the plum blossoms planted near 1st Division. 

Kenpachi leans down to kiss Hanatarō goodbye when he pipes up, “Thank you for bringing me all the way here, Ken-san! I’ll see you at noon outside your living quarters, then?” 

“Don’t mention it, pet. I’ll see ya later.” Grinning, Kenpachi ruffles Hanatarō’s hair and moves to leave, when he feels a slight pull at his hakama. 

He looks down at soft hands gripping his clothes, and shifts his curious gaze to Hanatarō’s decidedly determined face, which is looking a bit pink in a pale imitation of this morning’s frolic.

Seemingly struggling to do  _ something _ —Kenpachi has no idea what, exactly—Hanatarō scrunches his eyes shut and appears to take a moment to ready himself before opening them again.

The air about him is different, charged with a spark that Kenpachi can’t quite seem to place his finger on, and Hanatarō gently but insistently tugs Kenpachi down to his height. 

Hanatarō coyly leans in, eyes half-lidded, voice breathy, and whispers into Kenpachi’s ear, “Y’know Ken-san, I checked our schedules and it turns out we both have tomorrow off, and if we get our work done before noon, then I’m—well, then I’m  _ all _ yours for a day and a half.” 

Hanatarō pulls back, eyes twinkling and brilliant, pink tongue slipping out to wet coquettish lips, and Kenpachi is suddenly aware of every drop of sweat that is dripping down his back, the sound of the cicadas reaching a fever pitch as the mild yet unmistakable scent of fresh laundry and yuzu that is so  _ utterly _ Hanatarō encompasses the two. 

The sunlight overhead that had once been tender and benevolent unexpectedly becomes fierily intense, stoking the eager flames of a wolfish anticipation that has begun building in his gut.

Before Kenpachi can respond, Hanatarō pecks his cheek goodbye, takes a step back, giggling, and disappears between the large doors of the 4th division, leaving him with the echoing pitter-patter of his waraji upon the stone. 

Kenpachi exhales in amused disbelief as he turns and begins the journey back to his division. Hanatarō never ceased to surprise him. To think his once skittish and meek Hana could be so unabashedly bold, especially when he is well-known for his kind, caring nature and being naive to a fault. To be fair, though, for all his clumsiness and cowardly gullibility, Hanatarō displayed formidable and frankly admirable levels of fortitude and spunk in the face of adversity. 

Sweet, sweet Hanatarō. 

If anything ever happened to him, Kenpachi would first annihilate everyone in Seireitei, and then himself.

Kenpachi arrives at his office, kicking the rusted door open with an impatient foot. It is a little embarrassing to admit, but Kenpachi doesn’t think he’s been more motivated in his entire life to pick up a brush and actually tackle the accumulating piles of paperwork that are steadily taking over the dismal office. 

As he begins on the first treatise, thoughts constantly threatening to stray towards a certain  _ someone, _ he finds himself smiling, a look he finds unfit for a Shinigami as dangerous as he, but smiling, nonetheless.

How Kenpachi—a crude, callous, and bellicose man from the notorious District 80 of the North Alley of Rukongai no less—is even with such an adorable and endearing lover, he has no clue. (He most definitely has a clue, but he’s had enough lovey-dovey sentimentality in the span of their morning together to last him all day and for now refuses to even think about his first meeting with Hanatarō, amongst other stories. A topic for another day, perhaps.)

One thing is clear, though—He’s _most_ _definitely_ looking forward to noon.

  
  



End file.
